The Fighter King

by John Bowers

  "Aw, Christ, Brandon! That would be cruel as hell! Let her give birth, but she doesn't get to keep the baby? I can't believe you'd do that to her!"

  Brandon heaved a sigh. "At least she'd have the experience of carrying a child to term, and giving birth. The way it is now, she never will."

  "What makes you think she'd want to?"

  "She's talked about it. It's her one real regret. She doesn't mind being a slave …"

  "How the hell do you know that?"

  "She told me. Hell, her mother was a slave, her grandmother was a slave. It's the only life she knows."

  "Every human yearns for freedom, Brandon!"

  "That's your opinion."

  "That's a fact!"

  "Federation brainwash! If I gave Tascha her freedom she'd be dead inside a year."

  "Bullshit!"

  "You think so? She trusts everybody, Ollie. Look how quickly she took to you. She had no idea if you were a good guy or some psychopath who likes to cut women into little pieces. She simply opened her soul to you and fucked you blind. Didn't she?"

  Oliver nodded, still guilty at the memory.

  "Turn her loose and she'd lie down for every man who walked up to her. Sooner or later she'd meet up with a psycho and that would be that. Trust me, she's a lot safer in my stable than on her own."

  Oliver ground his teeth; that was crap, but he didn't want to get into another philosophical pissing contest. Brandon was, after all, responsible for his own freedom.

  "Anyway, Ollie — Tascha likes you and she'd jump at the chance to have your baby. And what the hell — you were planning to find a surrogate when you got home, weren't you? So why wait? By the time you get home, you'll have the babe in arms. What've you got to lose?"

  Oliver stared out the window at the winter crops whizzing past. It did make a certain amount of sense, he decided.

  "What if I get released before the baby is due?"

  "You won't."

  "What if I do?"

  Brandon shrugged again. "Tascha can go home with you, have the baby, and I'll pick her up later."

  "You'd let her go home with me?"

  "Why not?"

  "Maybe she'd want to stay. If she was on Terra, she could apply for political asylum. You'd lose her."

  Brandon smiled. "That won't happen."

  "How do you know?"

  "Tascha won't apply for asylum."

  "She might. I might talk her into it."

  Brandon laughed. "Good luck."

  Oliver stared at him. "You're pretty cocky, aren't you?"

  "I just know something that you don't."

  "Like what?"

  "Tascha has a hypno-security lock. She can't run away even if she wanted to. And she doesn't want to."

  "What the hell do you mean?"

  "There are no runaway slaves on Sirius," Brandon explained. "Slaves are hypno-secured. It's like a switch in the brain; when it's turned on, they can't run. Their minds won't allow it."

  "Are you serious?"

  "As a solar flare."

  Oliver stared out the window again, digesting this information.

  "So what do you say?" Brandon asked. "Let Tascha be your surrogate mother or not?"

  Oliver nodded slowly.

  "Let's ask her about it," he suggested. "If she wants to, then maybe so."

  Soderstad, Southern Plain, Vega 3

  They returned to Soderstad at dusk. Tascha had dinner waiting for them, and Oliver sat down to the best meal he'd eaten in over a year. For a slave, he reflected, Tascha was one hell of a cook, a talent he hadn't suspected her of having. Later, as he relaxed with a glass of brandy, Brandon called Tascha into the main salon to join them.

  She sat perched on the edge of her chair while Brandon explained to her what he and Oliver had discussed earlier. Oliver watched her reaction closely, ready to cancel the suggestion if she showed any reluctance whatsoever. Instead, she surprised him with the depth of her emotion.

  Tears streamed down her cheeks as she turned her lovely blue eyes on him.

  "Oliver! You would let me give birth to your baby?"

  "Only if you want to, Tascha," he said. "If you say no, that's the end of it."

  She stood quickly and crossed the room, throwing her arms around his neck.

  "Yes, Oliver! Yes, I want to! Thank you!"

  And she began to sob.

  Oliver met Brandon's eyes in surprise; Brandon was grinning.

  "That settles it?" he asked.

  Oliver nodded. "I guess it does."

  Wednesday, 3 August, 0196 (PCC) — Denver, CO, North America, Terra

  Oliver Lincoln II settled in behind his desk to start a new day. His mind was cluttered with details; so much had happened in such a short time! Rosemary was resting well, but wouldn't leave the hospital for several days. Jules Cedarquist had expressed concern that she might not be willing to testify against Jeremy Mason — Lincoln would have to make sure she did — and now he had to think about replacing Mason as head of security. He had no candidates in mind at the moment, but it was a post that needed filling soon.

  His comm buzzed, and Mrs. Waterbury's voice reached him. She sounded excited.

  "There's a call on two, Mr. Lincoln. It sounds urgent."

  Christ! What now? "I got it."

  He turned and punched the button, but no picture came on.

  "This is Lincoln," he said.

  The hollow sound was familiar, the distant crackle of stellar radiation that he usually associated with a subspace call.

  "Oliver Lincoln II?" a disturbingly familiar voice asked.

  "Yes, who is this?'

  "This is Oliver Lincoln III."

  Lincoln sat rigid in his chair, his face turned to stone. For five seconds he couldn't speak at all.

  "Hello? Dad? You there?"

  "Ollie?" His voice sounded gravelly, as if he needed to cough and spit. "Is that really you?"

  "It's really me, Dad. I'm calling from Vega."

  "Jesus Christ! Are you all right? Are you …" He almost said "still a prisoner?", but caught himself just in time. The Sirians didn't know he had that information, and he'd damned well better not let them know it.

  "Where the hell have you been?" he asked instead.

  Ollie heaved a sigh. "It's a long story, Dad. A really long story. I can't go into it now, but I'm in a safe place and I'm in good health."

  "Thank god!"

  "Didn't Mom tell you I called?"

  "You called your mother? When?"

  "Yesterday. She didn't sound very together, so I wasn't sure if she'd tell you or not."

  "Your mother hasn't been doing well lately," Lincoln said. "She's been worried sick about you. Maybe she'll improve now that she knows you're all right." But he didn't believe it. "When are you coming home?"

  "I can't answer that, Dad. I'm in Sirian custody, but they say I have to stay here until the war is over."

  "What! Goddamn, Ollie! How long will that take? It's already been a year!"

  "I know. But it probably won't be much longer. Just be patient and don't worry, okay? That's really all I can tell you right now."

  Lincoln stared at the window and forced himself not to ask the multitude of questions that were racing through his mind. It sounded as if the conversation might be monitored, so he wouldn't risk any questions now.

  "Is there anything I can do to expedite things?"

  "I don't think so. Dad, I'm out of time here. But I wanted to hear your voice and let you know I'm alive. I tried to get word out to you earlier, but communications were down."

  "I understand. Nobody on this end has any idea what's going on there, so I figured we'd just have to wait it out."

  "You got that right. Dad, I gotta go. When I get permission to come home, I'll call you."

  "Do that. We'll be okay here. You watch your ass, all right?"

  "Roger that. Love you, Dad."

  Lincoln almost choked. "I love you, too, Ollie. Be careful."

  "Take care of Mo
m."

  "I always have."

  The connection was broken.

  * * *

  Rosemary Egler felt stupid. Sitting in her hospital bed, half her face wrapped in bandages, the other half still raw and bruised, she replayed in her mind the meeting with Jeremy Mason. It had been an ill-advised move on her part, but she'd never dreamed how he would react.

  Armed with the knowledge that he talked about their intimate moments, even bragged about them, Rosemary had gone to his apartment to break off their relationship. It was the first time she'd ever gone there unannounced, and to her surprise he'd been quite drunk. She'd never seen him in that state, and the look in his eyes when he saw her had made her uneasy; she'd declined to enter the apartment, but instead simply told him.

  "Things are moving too fast for me, Jeremy," she said. "I'm just not ready to commit to a relationship right now, so …"

  He glared at her in sudden anger.

  "You're breaking up with me? Is that what this is? You're breaking up with me?"

  She nodded. "Yes. I'm sorry, Jeremy, I …"

  Before she could finish, he grabbed her by the throat. Her eyes sprang wide and she gagged, unable to breathe.

  "Nobody breaks up with me, bitch! Nobody! I do the breaking up! Not you!"

  He shoved her, throwing her off balance, and she landed heavily in the hallway. Before she could recover, he was bending over her, dragging her to her feet, and his fists went to work.

  She still didn't remember how she got away, or how many times he'd hit her. She remembered the sudden, blinding agony, the terrible panic as she realized her danger, but how long it lasted or how she escaped was still hazy.

  She should have known better. Especially after Mr. Lincoln's warning.

  Stupid.

  She laid her head back and closed her eyes. Her self-esteem was lower than she could ever remember; how could she face herself in the mirror after this? How could she face the people at work?

  The door opened and someone entered. She felt a terrible dread — it was humiliating to be seen like this. She kept her eyes closed, hoping whoever it was would go away. Instead, she felt a large, rough hand close around her own. The voice was deep and familiar, oddly reassuring.

  "Rosemary," Oliver Lincoln II said quietly, "I have great news."

  She opened her eyes and turned toward him. She expected to see pain in his eyes, the pain of looking at her injuries. Instead, his smile seemed almost beatific.

  "I had a call a little while ago," he said. "It was Ollie, calling from Vega. I wanted to tell you first."

  Chapter 42

  Tuesday, 16 August, 0196 (PCC) — Denver, CO, North America, Terra

  Sergeant Jules Cedarquist stared at the lovely young woman across the clutter of his desk. Her injuries were almost healed, though some discoloration remained. The plaster was gone from her cheek, but he knew the emotional scars had to run deep. No woman could endure what she'd been through without being marked in her psyche.

  "This isn't the first time he's done it," Jules said. "I know of at least one other incident like this. You're only the latest."

  "All I want," Rosemary said for the second time, "is for him to stay away from me. I'm not out for revenge. I just want to be safe."

  Jules sighed. Why were women so damned obstinate when some handsome fucker had beaten the shit out of them?

  "Rosemary, I understand what you're saying. You don't want revenge. You don't want to ruin a man's life. That's all very noble. But think about this — if that woman he beat up before he met you had pressed charges, you might not have had to go through this. Wouldn't that have been better?"

  She frowned. Her tongue traced across her lips in thought.

  "How much time would he get? If I testified against him?"

  "Three years, minimum."

  "Three!" she gasped. "That's a long time!"

  "Rosemary, he's a dangerous man! If you hadn't got away, by your own account, you were afraid he would've killed you!"

  "But three years! I — I can't take three years out of his life!"

  "Look — how do you think I feel? I was his partner. I know this guy. I've known him a lot longer than you have. Rosemary, I'm a cop. I see this shit all the time. I'm not out to get Jeremy Mason, but I do recognize a dangerous man when I see one. He is a dangerous man! If not to you, then to the next unsuspecting woman he meets. Can you at least think about protecting that woman, whoever she might be?"

  Rosemary was civic minded, and a good citizen. She was also compassionate, perhaps even to her own detriment. It was difficult to think in terms of protecting others when she was faced with sending Jeremy to prison.

  "Jules … Would you send Jeremy away for three years?" she asked simply.

  "In a heartbeat." Jules didn't even blink.

  She closed her eyes.

  "Rosemary, the DA is going to talk to you this afternoon. If you don't agree to testify, he's going to order Jeremy cut loose. Once he's out, he's a free man. What's to stop him from coming after you again?"

  "Why would he do that? I haven't hurt him."

  "You didn't hurt him the last time, either."

  "Can't you protect me?"

  "I'm trying to! But you've got to testify. Goddammit …" He stopped, forcing himself to be calm. "I'm sorry. But don't you see? I can't put a man on you twenty-four hours a day. You'll be taking your chances."

  "I thought I could get a restraining order."

  Jules nodded.

  "Yes, you can do that. But do you know what a restraining order is? It's a piece of paper. I can show you several tombstones over at the cemetery of people who had restraining orders. They're dead now."

  Rosemary twisted the band of her wristwatch without realizing she was doing it. She shook her head in confusion.

  "I want to help you, Jules," she said finally, "but three years — that's too long."

  "It may not be long enough," he countered. "If Jeremy gets out in three years, he may still come after you. Then you'd wish it had been ten."

  "Gosh!"

  "Look, did you talk to your boss about this? When you were still in the hospital, he promised me you would testify."

  "He did? Mr. Lincoln did?"

  "Yes. He said you'd testify if he had to twist your arm while you did it."

  Rosemary smiled. "I would expect him to say something like that."

  "He wants you to be safe, Rosemary. And so do I. Please, let's put this guy away."

  * * *

  "Mr. Lincoln, it's the State Department on line six."

  Oliver Lincoln II raised his eyebrows in surprise. He punched the button and looked at the screen. Gerald Brewster gazed out at him, a pleasant smile on his face.

  "Mr. Lincoln! How's the weather in Colorado today?"

  "A little hazy. How are things in London?"

  "Bit of a drizzle." Brewster looked pleased with himself. Lincoln waited patiently, with a pretty good idea what had initiated the call.

  "I have some good news for you, Mr. Lincoln."

  "Really?"

  "Yes, indeed! Your son has been located. He is alive and well on Vega 3!"

  Lincoln played along with a tentative smile of his own. No need to piss the bastard off — he might need his services in the future.

  "This isn't a joke, is it?" he asked.

  "Not at all. We've made several requests to the Sirian embassy regarding your son, and this morning they responded that he's been located. He's in Sirian custody at the moment and doing quite well. Unfortunately, they don't plan to send him home just yet …"

  "Why the hell not? He's a neutral citizen!"

  Brewster's smile faded slightly, but he nodded patiently.

  "There is a bit of a complication, I'm afraid. It seems your son was captured in the uniform of the Vegan Guard. He is considered a prisoner of war."

  Lincoln continued the charade with a scowl.

  "What the hell was he doing in the Guard?"

  "That hasn't been cleared u
p yet." Brewster explained on for some minutes, telling Lincoln nothing he didn't already know. Lincoln let him talk.

  "… still working on it, Mr. Lincoln. I assure you we'll do everything possible on this end to secure his release."

  Lincoln heaved a sigh. "Well, keep me posted, Mr. Brewster. And thanks for all your help."

  "Certainly." Brewster beamed again. "I'm sure it won't be long. I know you must be relieved."

  "You have no idea," Lincoln replied truthfully.

  Within the next two hours, no fewer than three holo-news networks called, requesting an interview. The story had leaked, and the press was frantic for news of the Federation citizen who'd been captured fighting for the Vegan Guard. Lincoln declined to be interviewed, but answered a few questions, keeping his comments vague. The next day Ollie's picture was on all the holo networks.

  Lincoln shrugged it off; the story was good PR, and surely it couldn't do any harm.

  Soderstad, Southern Plain, Vega 3

  Under orders from the SE — specifically Brandon Marlow — a Vegan medical team implanted the zygote in Tascha's womb. Oliver suggested, and Brandon agreed, that a Vegan specialist would be preferable, since most Sirian doctors on the planet were trauma surgeons. The procedure was fairly straightforward and was completed in about an hour. Tascha was tested several days later to make sure the implant had taken, and all indicators looked good.

  In nine months, Oliver Lincoln III would be a father.

  September 0196 (PCC) — Denver, CO, North America, Terra

  The trial took place in September. As Rosemary took the stand to recount the horrors of that night when Jeremy had beaten her within an inch of her life, Jeremy sat serene and angelic at the defense table, wearing a three-piece suit and looking like the All‑Federation Boy.

  The prosecution case was pretty straightforward; Rosemary told the story of her beating, pictures of her injuries were introduced, and Jules Cedarquist testified as to her condition and Jeremy's confession during the arrest. That was it.

  Then the defense had its turn.

  When Jeremy took the stand in his own defense, it was quickly established that he was a civic hero. The defense attorney spent considerable time recounting the story of his heroism, how he'd sacrificed his leg rather than fire at the suspect when a miss might have hit a nearby apartment building. He'd been made Police Officer of the Year. His employment record at LincEnt was then entered into evidence, proving that he'd performed admirably as a security officer; his record at Enterprises was unblemished.